Monsooned Malabar
by AngelDormais
Summary: He was hard on the kid because he'd sensed the ego from the start. Coffee brought them closer; his daughter brought them together; but Tokyo preferred Akira dead. In which Sojiro wants things to be simple, and Akira still makes time for it. Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

_a/n: Missing scene from 11/21. This was written primarily as my way of venting my horrible, still-unresolved coffee family feelings; damn it Atlus, up your protagonist hurt/comfort game, I am not satisfied!_

* * *

The truth is, his coffee is damn near perfect, but you don't tell the kid that. He's enough of a cocky punk as it is without you swelling that fluffy head.

But you still smile, and tell him it's worth a compliment, and behind his glasses Akira's dark eyes glint with humility that separates his pride from his better-schooled layer of smugness. You can't help that think that's the funnier part, honestly. The kid leads a group of misfits who have broken into the world of cognitive psience and beaten down the wills of power-mad giants, and he gets sappy over a decent cup of coffee.

What a brat.

You set the cup down on the dish and ask to be his mentor a little bit longer. You're not expecting a serious answer - very rarely does anything about this tired-looking, dry, enigmatic teenager look serious - and yet he wipes his hands in his apron, nudging up his glasses with a knuckle, and he smiles like he'd enjoy nothing more in the world.

"You're going home in a few months, you know," you almost remind him sharply; right then and there, because for some reason you're suddenly, alarmingly aware of it.

You don't do it because Akira has already taken your cup and is shuffling off towards the kitchen, leaving you to the low rumble of the television and the rain-tapped windowpanes. The kid knows his probation is up in less than half a year. He knows how much he's risking with the Phantom Thieves. Not that you've been the kindest guy to him from the start, but there's no reason for you to go reminding him off all his responsibilities he's got to resolve before he leaves.

You don't remind him because it'd be a hassle to bring it up now.

That's all.

* * *

Above the droning hum of the television, a dish falls to the floor and breaks.

You think it's the cat at first - damn that cute little thing - but as you turn and stoop to pick up the shards from the floor, you remember that the little guy is attached to Akira at the back, and your ward is nowhere in sight. You haven't seen him since this morning, actually, which isn't at all strange.

Then again, neither was the expression he'd left with this morning. Or the one he'd had last night. The hardness in his oft-languid face, like a stone unearthed from a soft bed of sand. You'd scolded him about it in the past; about getting over things that didn't go his way. The same way you'd often scold him the very following day, when he'd return home exhausted but lightened, as though unchained from a weight pressed down on his back.

You look at the clock.

What catches your eye instead is the television headline, reported listlessly by a tired-looking anchor who couldn't give less of a damn.

 _"Breaking news: the leader of the Phantom Thieves has committed suicide while in police custody."_

The dish pieces clatter back to the floor. For good measure, the plate in your other hand falls and cracks, too.

* * *

The coffee nearly scalds on the way down, but you drain it all in one go. Your trained palate frenzies, unused to the abuse, and even as it tries to sift out the notes of acidity and quality of roast, you swallow it down and don't care.

Bitter, you think.

It's bitter.

As you pour another cup, desperate to inject enough caffeine into your veins to last you through what will doubtless be an entire night of news coverage, you notice that your hands are shaking so badly that the mug clatters on its saucer like a set of chattering teeth.

 _Kilimanjaro_ , some connoisseur part of your brain finally supplies, as if you give a shit. You're too busy trying not to hate yourself into a pit of despair for following your stupid ladykiller-days policy; never opening your contacts list to the kid, even after opening your attic to him, your daughter's soul to him, your crusty, undeserving _heart_ to him.

You've already tried calling Futaba. She won't pick up. God, you don't know what you're going to do if she's hurt, too.

For once in your life, you hope she's ignoring you because she hates you so much. Hates you for failing her; for being a terrible stand-in of a father, who'd let things like this happen to the kids he'd promised he would do everything in his power to protect. Who would let the ravenous world devour his children while he stood there and wiped down countertops.

The newsman prattles on and on behind an aged screen of sepia. He's infuriatingly vague; bullshitting everything from cause of death to responsibility, and your whole body is shaking so badly that it's hard to concentrate.

The caffeine isn't helping; but it's not the source.

* * *

Forty-odd minutes after you learn that Akira is dead, Sae Nijima bursts through your front door.

The irritation you feel at having your shock and grief interrupted gives way to fury the very moment you recognize her. As you shoot to your feet, it takes every inch of your self-control not to hurl the closest ceramic mug at her head and tell her to get the hell out of your sight, heartless judicial lapdog, don't make you waste the cup on murderous, negligent trash like her.

Before you can talk yourself into it, she tucks a strand of smoke-gray hair behind her ear, drawing attention to her uncharacteristically frazzled appearance, and pins you with her severe-looking red gaze.

"I have him," she says harshly. "I - _he_ needs your help."

She doesn't need to elaborate. With a speed you hadn't known you possessed at this age, you tear your apron off and practically fly around the bar, following her brisk steps out the door.

It's dim in the underglow of your shop's sign. The backstreets hum with sleepy Tokyo life, but all your focus lies on Nijima's path through the back alley. She keeps glancing over her shoulder; not at you, but beyond, as though she's afraid someone is following her. If you had the sense, you'd be afraid of it, too. Even smarter, you'd realize that she could be leading you by the nose into some kind of trap.

You don't care.

"Here," she says crisply, turning the corner right where it empties into an alleyway connected to the street. An empty taxi is parked, the engine running, and Sae hastily throws open the backseat door. You feel your breath hitch at the body of Akira sprawled in the back, piled in a swath of blankets, shivering and pale.

Akira blinks groggily up at you; one eye swollen shut, the other dilated and unfocused.

"Sakura-san?" he croaks.

"You punk," you say, and somehow your voice is even weaker than his. Your hands are still shaking when you reach in and draw him out by the arms, and he _flinches_ , god, but he still melts into your grip, letting you pull him out, and his head lolls bonelessly, frizzy hair forcing his one good eye shut.

"Don't you know what they're saying about you, you troublemaker? Do you have any idea…"

You growl and pull his arm over your shoulder like he's not a good several inches taller than you, scolding him all the way. He's barely listening. So are you.

This troublesome, no-good moron.

Damn him.

"They haven't treated him well," Sae cuts in as she shuts the door. There's a sharp note of anger in her voice, and unwittingly, you find your respect for her shooting up a notch or two. When she turns to look at Akira, her harsh gaze softens in pity. "It's been a tough night for him. No thanks to me."

Then her eyes are on you again.

"The others are all safe, including your daughter. She'll be along soon. I expect the rest will show up within the next day or so to collect their leader. Until then, I'll leave him to you."

Sae Nijima's exit can be measured in rhythm, with the sharp clicking of her heels on asphalt as she rounds her appropriated taxi and climbs into the driver's seat, but somehow it's still so hilariously abrupt that you can't do more than stand there and watch her rumble away into the floodlike current of Tokyo traffic.

Akira groans against your side. You realize that you've stopped shaking, but your ward, flushed with sweat and trembling, has only just started.

"Time for my attic prison?" he chuckles, miserably.

"Shut up," you bark.

Taking his weight onto yours - he's favoring his left leg - you haul him straight towards the alley that will take you directly to your house.

"We're going home, fool."

* * *

"Sojirooooo..."

You grunt and wave a hand to show that you heard, but that's as far as you get. Your throat is thick with the taste of black coffee. You should know better than to try and outpace the caffeine crashes at your age.

"Sojirooo! Get up!"

The voice registers as Futaba's this time, but you don't know what she could possibly want. Is she annoyed because Akira spent all day doing pull-ups in the attic again instead of playing video games with her? Tch, it's not like the kid has any weight he needs to shed, the little beanpole-

"Sojiro! _Up,_ I say! Deploy Anti-Mona-tonin!"

And you don't get _any_ time to puzzle that out before there's a loud _Mreow!_ shrieked directly into your ears, and you startle awake just in time to see Futaba dump the cat into your lap with both arms. Morgana flails unhappily as you shoot up into a sitting position, instinctively shoving him off onto the floor with a yelp.

As you blink down at him, he scrabbles to his feet and gives you a thoroughly betrayed look. Aw, hell. You feel bad about that. He didn't even try to claw you.

But Futaba ducks into your vision, pushing her glasses up with a pinky, her fiery orange hair spilling past her shoulders. For as eccentric as your adopted daughter is, there's a glint of uncharacteristic urgency in her eyes that reminds you a lot of-

Oh, hell.

"Sojiro! Akira! Take us to Akira, please!"

On the floor, Morgana pulls primly into a sitting position, wrapping his tail around his feet and meowing firmly in what you can only assume is agreement. Exhausted, you hunt a minute for your own glasses and grumble your way into full consciousness, waiting for the evening's events to fully re-register with you.

"Where have you been?" is the first thing you manage to say, which comes out a hell of a lot more scolding than you'd meant it to. Morgana peers at Futaba and meows something in the distinct tone of _I-told-you-so_ , not that you claim to understand damn Cat, but your daughter isn't even phased.

"Doesn't matter! Even kitty says you're being too slow! He's gonna scratch you allll up for making us worry longer!"

Morgana's next yowl is an alarmed denial, and okay, either you _are_ starting to understand the cat or you're going crazy from stress. It pulls a smirk out of you, though. Cursing your old bones, you rise from the couch and ruffle a hand through Futaba's hair on your way down the hall.

"All right, all right. You win. I've kept him safe and sound for you."

You haven't done much, actually, other than make him as comfortable as you could while you fought to break his fever. Worry is creeping again through your own gut as you climb the stairs to your room; you sat down for only a moment to rest, but you're not sure how long you were out. Akira isn't likely to have expired in the time you were away, but still…

If Futaba thinks it's weird that you've laid Akira out in your own bed, she doesn't say it. She whisks past you as you open the door, the cat hot on her heels, and both of them throw themselves onto the mattress where your ward is stretched out beneath a thin blanket.

While Morgana kneads Akira gently, sniffing and meowing before finally curling up into a ball on his stomach, Futaba peels off the damp towel you'd placed on his forehead and feels his skin with a soft tut.

"I wanna know what they did to him," she says. There's a hardness in her voice that you've heard in the steel of her mother's.

"You and me both," you grouse. But you've already got a pretty good idea. You weren't always a humble coffee-shop owner watching Japan spiral into hell from behind a glass window. As you brushed Akira's bangs back, helped him gently out of his school uniform and handed him a set of your old pajamas, you saw his dilated eyes; you heard his slurred attempts at explanations, assurances that made you want to cuff him over the ear.

 _They haven't treated him well_ , Nijima had said.

Bitterly, you think: _When's the last time someone has?_

* * *

When you walk into your house, Akira is upright on the couch, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the news.

"Hey," you say brightly. "You're not looking half-bad for a dead man."

"Not feeling half-bad for one either," Akira says with a tired smile. He seems to reconsider. "Maybe a quarter-bad."

"I'll bet." Moving to stand in front of Akira, you use your knuckle to tip his chin up towards you. He allows it without so much as a blink. It almost helps you forget the way he flinched away from your touch the night you pulled him out of a taxi as a shaking, delirious wretch. "Well, eyes look clear. And you're not mumbling nonsense about your cat warden anymore."

Akira laughs and swats your hand away. "You wouldn't think it's nonsense if _you_ could understand him."

You glance to your coffee table, and for some reason, you aren't surprised to see two additional coffee cups laid out on the table, making three in total. One of them is entirely drained, with only a faint yellow ring to suggest it had been filled at all. Futaba must have drank hers before leaving this morning. Akira is nursing his right now. It's the last cup-piping hot, curls of thick steam willowing into the air, that catches your attention.

"Have a cup," Akira suggests casually, as though he hadn't just set it out especially for you with his apparent psychic powers.

You sigh with the appropriate level of exasperation and plop down onto the couch next to Akira. "You sure there's time for this? You've got a lot of people anxious to see you, you know."

"I know," he says, and drains his cup. That stony look is in his eyes again. You suddenly wish you could bury it again, under all the softness in that innocent-looking boy with the glasses, in a world where it was really just as simple as a misjudged kid you could take in and teach your craft, in a world that wasn't trying to destroy him or his future or grind him into the dirt with its heel.

Seriously - what a troublesome kid.

But you don't tell him that. You pick up the cup, inhaling the smooth notes of Blue Mountain, and take a long, slow draw, as if you can make this moment last forever before sending your boy back out to the world.

As you lower the cup, Akira watches you expectantly. You set it down with a solid _click_ of porcelain and nudge him affectionately with your arm.

"I still have a lot to teach you," you rumble warmly. And because he's such a clever damn fool, you watch the iron weight in his eyes break apart, just for a moment, for something softer and lighter, for a place with a crusty old man who will be his mentor for just a little bit longer in a world that rejoices in the safety of his death.

Just a little bit longer. That's all he wants.

That's all.


	2. Chapter 2

_a/n: I spent a while kicking myself for not tying a couple things together better in "Monsoon Malabar". Then I thought, what the hell, it's not like my feelings are resolved yet, nor is the game short on missing scenes that seriously should have been included. Thus, two-shot._

 _Come on, Atlus. Traumatizing your protags to quantifiable degrees, I get. Proceeding to staunchly block them from acknowledging it or receiving any sort of direct emotional support from their loved ones? That's where you start losing me._

* * *

You've never seen _that_ look on his face before.

No. You correct yourself. You have; once. What feels like a long time ago, which really wasn't, when a scruffy-haired teenager wearing clear-lens glasses wandered into your café for the first time, speaking to you in a low and obliging voice. A mask of cool politeness, which you had been too busy spitting on to care about why it was there.

It tells you, as Akira dumps his bag on the counter and files into the bathroom, that somehow, for some reason, he feels the same way right now as he did when he was fresh off the train to Tokyo. And you've had plenty of time to finally ass yourself into putting yourself in his shoes for those first few weeks. It wasn't rocket science, really.

Alone in a vast, faceless swell of people who would only ever look in his direction to hate him.

The toilet flushes. Akira opens the door and rounds the corner to wash his hands in the sink, not acknowledging you or the empty bag on the counter.

Maybe you're waiting for him to tell you what's wrong, like that has a snowball's chance in hell of happening. Or maybe you're just not sure how to broach the subject when the scars you left are probably still in there, somewhere, the swollen red lines in the whites of his eyes. You don't know how welcome you are to him.

You miss your opportunity; Akira shakes his hands dry and scoops up his bag, then briskly heads upstairs.

 _Where's the cat?_ you wonder. Worry curls in your stomach like rotten milk, though you're not certain for what, exactly.

You've already closed the shop and cleaned up, but you start the burner anyway. Before long, the aroma of coffee swirls through LeBlanc's interior, suffusing from the wooden walls, with hints of robust spice from the pot that bubbles on the stove.

You're not the best with words. Jeez, you're not the best with anything when it comes to them. But like hell is that little punk going to drift right on past you like a ghost, as if you're the same damn piece of work that looked at him like he was a wad of gum stuck to your boot nearly a year ago.

As if you can't help him, the way he helped you.

* * *

In retrospect, it must have been pure dumb luck, because no way in hell are you actually good enough with kids to pull off some brilliant fatherly gambit.

But it works.

Just as you're heaping rice onto a plate, you hear the telltale creak of the old wooden stairs. You pretend to be preoccupied and go on ladling a thick, steamy blanket of curry on top, and when you finally turn around, you're actually a little surprised to see Akira sitting hunched at the bar. You'd expected to have to lure him over from the doorway.

Wordlessly, you slide the plate in front of him. Clap down an empty mug and some silverware, then make your way to the boiling carafe.

Akira starts eating with slow, precise bites. He avoids the curry until you're hovering over his mug, serving his coffee, and then he heaps the rich stock into his next bite, reaching for his mug before he's finished chewing.

You lean back against the counter, arms crossed, pretending you give a crap about the news. Truthfully, it's not often that you see Akira eat with this much mechanical vigor. You're not sure what the hell kind of potato diet his parents had him on back in the country, but the kid tends to get a bit green-faced if he shovels down too much rich food. You remember overhearing Sakamoto poke fun at him about it back in May, in fact.

Sure enough, when you look back, he's cleared less than a third of his plate and is already slowing down. With a slow breath, Akira sets down his utensils and grimaces.

"Something wrong?" you ask. It's a test. The way Akira's pupils fly up to you, heavy like iron balls, confirms what you'd already figured out. Showing mercy, you lift the corner of your mouth and point. "With the curry. What, too good for my home-cooked meals now, hotshot?"

And then you dare to think that you might not be completely inept at this after all, because Akira's lips pull into a smile and he shakes his tangled frock of hair.

"I prefer calamari," he quips with some life. "Escargot, _garçon_."

You slide your thumb and index beneath your glasses, pinching the bridge of your nose with a sigh. "Stop it. Like you even know what that means."

Akira grins wider, taking another bite of rice, and you're relieved. That the haunted look is defrosting from his face, and that whatever has him upset, it hasn't completely crushed his appetite. Because he's still looking wan and exhausted in a way that you haven't seen since November, as if someone went and beat the hell out of him again without leaving bruises this time.

"I know you're not usually here this late," he ventures through a mouthful of curry. When you raise an eyebrow, he elaborates. "It's Christmas Eve."

"So what?" you ask bluntly.

"What if I wanted to bring a girl up?"

That has you laughing, and you shake your head.

"Nope. Sorry. You're stuck with me tonight, punk."

The atmosphere feels a bit more comfortable after that, and you dread having to ruin it with whatever bombshell awaits on the horizon. The same subject that keeps either of you from suggesting bringing Futaba over to join in. You spend a full minute watching the snow skate across the shop's window before Akira breaks the silence with one solemn word.

"Sojiro."

It's funny. You can count on a single hand how many times Akira has called you by your given name, the same way you can use the other to count the number of times Futaba has called you 'Dad'. No instance has failed to jumpstart that alarmingly warm tightness in your chest.

You hear Akira's tone, take one look at his steel-cut face, and god damn it. There's a first time for everything.

You don't need to answer; you just watch him. Akira pushes aside his plate and leans over the counter, like there's something latched squarely between his shoulders, bowing him under its weight.

"I talked to Sae Nijima today. There's something I have to tell you."

Abruptly, with cold fingers digging into your gut, you don't think you've earned this after all.

But you know that tone _(you heard it in Wakaba)_ , and you know this kid _(no-good, good-hearted brat),_ and you lean forward on the counter with both hands, hovering over Akira's slouched form like you can protect him from it. Because the weight is all in his eyes - without the mask, where you saw your scars - and if you let anything else pile on top of him, you feel like whatever god damn part of society he's shackled to this time will sink him to somewhere you can't reach.

Sometimes you feel like this whole country is sinking. Up until some snot-nosed brats showed up and started stealing hearts, you almost thought it it deserves to.

You don't think Akira is aware of you posing over him like some puffed-up, overprotective bear. But maybe whatever else you've done tonight has helped. Because he sits a little straighter, pulls of his glasses, and begins to talk.

And you listen.

* * *

The conversation had lasted well into the night. The subject matter, though, guaranteed that you'd lie awake in your bed for well over an hour afterward, trying to wrap your old brain around everything that Akira had trusted you enough with to divulge.

Most of all, he trusted you not to tell his friends. Not to tell Futaba. And damn him, you're not sure what kind of father that makes you, but it makes you one disaster of a probation officer. Not that you've cared about that crap in months. Absently you wonder if he even writes in that journal you gave him, that you never checked once since tossing it onto his dresser.

It looks like you'll never get the chance to now.

By the time your alarm goes off, you're still awake enough to shut it up on the first ring. Four in the morning sharp, which means that the darkness still bogging through your windows has nothing to do with the snow flurries outside. Akira's usually up by six on Sundays. Futaba won't be awake until nine, if you're being generous with your estimate.

It's a short walk, so you don't bother bundling yourself up. You pull on a pair of warm boots, wrap yourself in an overcoat, and make sure your front door is locked this time on your way out.

When you make it into LeBlanc, peeling off and tossing your winterwear into a booth - seriously, what are the chances you're going to get customers on a snowy Christmas Day - you see Akira is in fact there at the counter, doing a crossword puzzle. He's dressed in a ridiculous-looking cardigan and fleece pants, because sure, who the hell cares? They're sure to dress him up however they damn well please in juvie.

"Mornin," you say as you hang your hat next to _Sayuri._ Akira twirls his pen through his fingers and returns your greeting with a warm look.

"Morning."

You still haven't seen the cat, which you don't bring up. Nor can you bring yourself to say something insensitive and stupid like, _'So, today's the day'._ Instead you pull your apron off its hook as you make your way behind the bar, and after a moment of deliberation, you take the spare that has now established itself Akira's and toss it at him.

He drops the pen to catch it with a glint of confusion in his eyes. Understandable, considering you don't open until five, and he expects to be picked up by Tokyo's Finest before seven.

"Got a new lesson for you." You tie the apron behind you with one hand, using the other to flick off the droning television screen. "If you're not too busy."

Akira watches you with something equally cautious and curious in his eyes. It doesn't escape your notice that he seems lighter today - whether from sloughing off some of his weight last night, or that he's simply that strong, to have accepted it like a man. You're proud of him either way.

And you're relieved.

Sure enough, Akira rises to his feet and slips on his apron like he was born doing it. You're accustomed to tending the bar together, so when you turn to your wall of coffee beans, your ward is moving to fill the kettles with water and set them to a boil.

He's just finished placing the last one as you plunk the jar onto the counter. While you pry it open, he reads the label in a murmur.

"Malabar?"

"Monsooned Malabar," you correct, popping the lid off. Setting it aside, you tap the label again to point out the tiny caption he'd missed. "It's a processing technique for coffee beans."

Akira waits, clearly expecting you to launch into your usual connoisseur's sermon, but you're silent as you scoop the beans out. Puzzlement is creeping back into his expression, and as amusing as it is to see that stupefied look on a face that's usually so composed, customers don't pay for gawking. "What are you standing around for? These beans aren't going to grind themselves, you know."

And so you take him through the process, one last time. He doesn't need the coaching; his hands are quick, and he toils effortlessly through the fog of steam that fans across his glasses. But you talk him the whole way through, criticize the way he works the grinder, lightly praise the fineness of his coffee grinds. He must think it's weird how much you're talking, given you haven't hovered over his work with this much scrutiny in months.

But there's a smug, cocky, no-good tick in his smile whenever he deigns to retort, and you ineffectively put him on rice-washing duty twice before the grinds even hit the press. You don't glance at the door once. Neither does he, and it gives some senseless part of you comfort to know that you're the last person he'll actively watch coming through LeBlanc's entrance.

It doesn't usually take an hour to brew a single pot of coffee. You blame your punk of a ward. But by the time six rolls around, Akira is seated at the bar, a cup of Malabar coffee hissing steam into the air from a snow-white mug in front of him.

"Go on," you say. "Give it your best shot."

Akira takes a moment to savor the scent - you'll make a connoisseur out of him yet. Then he takes a slow, careful pull from the mug, and you watch his adam's apple work up and down, his untrained palate trying to suss out the complexity of the blend.

"It's… dry," he says haltingly, like he's unsure of the correct terminology. "And kind of nutty."

You grin from ear-to-ear. "See? Perfect for you."

Akira snorts into his coffee, sending droplets up into his face, and quickly sets the mug down while wiping his sleeve over his glasses.

"That was an elaborate process for one punchline," he grumbles. But you're not fooled. He adjusts his glasses, his eyes creasing with humor at the corners.

Your stomach twists and flip-flops and your chest tightens, and you ignore it. Because god. You're going to miss this brat.

You know what he's thinking, as you set a modestly-portioned plate of rice in front of him. He thinks this is the final lesson, a parting gift from master to pupil. If you had any damn lick of sense, you would be agreeing with him. Which is why, as he ignores the rice to stare at his mug with a faint line between his brows, you know what he's thinking.

"Listen up," you say in your familiar cadence. He snaps to attention, watching you expectantly. You cross your arms.

"I'm leaving this one to you. Figure out the secrets of Malabar yourself."

There. Your leap of faith. Akira's staring at you like you've grown a second head, and then a third one, and while that look is still funny on him, you aren't joking. He seems to realize this with a subtle click of his jaw.

"Sojiro. I don't think that's…"

"What? Possible?" You chuckle, and maybe it's bitter. "I don't want to hear that from you. You'll find a way."

You look away, and Akira looks at you. You wonder what he sees.

"Besides," you say, your eyes falling on _Sayuri._ "I've got a feeling."

You're not sure if Akira plans to formulate a response. It doesn't matter anyway, because an outline forms beyond the frosted panes of LeBlanc's entrance, and the bell jingles brightly to announce the entrance of Sae Nijima and two goons you don't care about.

Akira turns to look, but you step forward and wave one arm in full cantankerous fashion.

"Hey! What happened to seven sharp? Jeez… that eager for your scapegoat, huh? At least let the guy finish his breakfast."

"That should be fine," Nijima cuts in before the suits can start hollering.

It's not a victory. But when you turn to look at Akira, you couldn't be prouder of the way he stares Goon One down with that bastard smugness as he dutifully shovels down rice.

* * *

You don't usually trust your instincts, which sure as hell didn't do a damn thing for Wakaba. But maybe they're good for something. You allow yourself the nice thought, even while your eyes mist behind your glasses.

Akira's mop of hair (and that loud cat) is the last part of him you see, in the few seconds it takes for him to walk out of LeBlanc for what will be the final time in a while. Because you're being kind to yourself today, you allow yourself to tack on _'in a while'_ freely, too. You're man enough to admit that you've gotten sappy in your old age.

And you're really going to miss that punk.

The little journal is exactly on the counter where you'd left it; it stays there all day. Maybe some fool part of you thinks that if you don't open it, that last part of Akira won't leave the walls of this place. It's not that you're afraid of what he's written, or even of whatever wild tales he might have stashed in there - hell, you're pretty sure the early entries will have a few choice descriptives of you, unfettered from the nice-boy mask Akira had solidly cultivated in those days. You're almost looking forward to it. Few deserve it more than you.

It's when you finally close up for the night and send Futaba home with a thermos of curry that you feel like you've steeled yourself enough for it. Shedding your apron onto the counter, you roll your pink sleeve and pick up the journal. As you slide into a booth, flicking the cover open, you're startled into pause by the sticky note that clings in bright yellow to the first page.

On the note is Akira's deft scrawl, written in pen.

 _Monsooned Malabar_

 _A technique applied to the processing of coffee beans. Whole beans are subjected to severe batterings beneath monsoon rains for a period of time, usually three to four months. Through surviving the process, the beans lose acidity while gaining a pleasant mellowness, with hints of spice. Also considered a somewhat eccentric blend. Nonetheless, sought out and appreciated by those with a fine palate.  
_

 _Classy._

 _That's what I got from Wikipedia. I'll study up and give you a full report next time I make a cup for you._

 _Akira_

You stare at the note for what can't be more than a few seconds, yet feels like an entire year in your mind. Then you pull off your glasses, wipe your eyes, and tuck the journal into your pocket.

As you leave out the front door, you press the note directly beneath the framed picture of a woman gazing at her child. You don't think too hard about that. Even you have a limit on how much sappiness you're willing to put up with.

But this, you think, is the last bit you'll allow. And you flip the sign to Closed, leaving LeBlanc empty for the night for the first time in a full, rich year.

You don't expect that to last.


End file.
